This poem was named after Brillat-Savarin, eccentric gourmand, who died in 1826. One of his most interesting, and typical, quips was: “Dessert without cheese is like a beautiful girl with only one eye.”
I Take one chicken from three to five pounds, coming home from an evening on the town, salt it with garlic and pepper, then melt one-half stick of butter that signals the end of it in a pan with one spoon of tarragon, all that there was, our civilization, and three-fourths cup white wine. Stuff the chicken with the green ends of spring onions, pour on simmering mixture hot in the memory from the pan, then cook what seethes on the brain in a moderate oven for forty-five passing in sequence minutes plus ten for each pound if cold like time on end, like scallops and seven if at room temperature. Serve with risotto and haricots verts on the beach à maître d’hôtel. White wine. II Marinate two veal chops, rather thick, where is my youth, with the juice of two lemons, garlic salt, where did it go? and one teaspoon of crushed thyme. While the Lord in the marinade, sauté one bell pepper speaks of His passion and one onion, diced, in one-half stick of butter as if it were a nail just bolted until tender. Remove the vegetables to my neighbor’s eyes and cook the chops on top of the stove I hate them in the butter residue for fifteen minutes, let them go blind turning them once in the meantime, those fouls. Add the vegetables along with one can of hate, but with tomatoes to pilaf, and serve with a rosé piety. III Where are the snows of yesteryear, in one-half stick of butter sauté three crushed* goons who have besieged me one-half teaspoon of oregano, and one teaspoon of parsley with their angry looks. After ten minutes of slow simmering, add an eight-ounce can of minced clams; allow this to simmer for five to ten minutes or is He? and serve over spinach noodles. White wine and perhaps a salad of bell pepper I’ve often wondered and tomato; tarragon dressing. *(garlic cloves, one tablespoon of sweet basil) IV Especially coming home late when I lather a three to four pound rump roast with garlic salt, pepper, and marjoram, sear it for a few minutes on top of the stove speak of love with high heat, being careful to brown all sides. Surround with three sliced onions their beautiful backs in butter and one-third cup of water, then cook for twenty-five minutes per pound at 325 times I’ve seen Satan, too, under a tent of aluminum, and serve hot with devils by his side, eating baked potatoes, sour cream, a tossed salad, pigs-feet, and a hearty burgundy. V For each one-half pound of steak, cook one-half the pain a bell pepper, one-half of an onion makes for a winsome frolic through bus terminals in two or three tablespoons of butter slowly late at night until tender. Slice the steak into thin strips when only the masks are out and marinate with enough Worcestershire to make me quiver, and to coat each piece evenly and sparingly dream of them. O Jesus! Salt and pepper the vegetables and the steak. I’ve been cold too long. Remove the vegetables from the pan and cook past my prime the steak in the butter for a few minutes. I’ve written books on religion then add the vegetables, stir a few minutes to see visions until just done, still slightly, rare, and serve topped with a quartered tomato over rice. Red wine. VI For dessert spread a mixture of melted butter over the hands and honey over toast: serve with coffee and tea then look at them and light up a cigarette, or a cigar or their host.
